The Three Sisters Teares.

The Three Sisters Teares. Shed at the late solemne Funerals of the Royall deceased Henry, Prince of Wales, &c. R. N. Oxon.

118 elegiac stanzas. Richard Niccols imitates Spenser's Tears of the Muses in an elegy for Prince Henry in which the three kingdoms appear as mourners. The "Estrich plumes" on Henry's crown are compared to "a dainty Palme," after Spenser's famous description of Arthur's helmet.

Ruth Wallerstein: "His verses, which might be called a masque or pageant rather than an elegy, are diffusely allegorical, recollecting Spenser and perhaps the Induction to the Mirror for Magistrates. They mingle four themes, grouped in two inventions. In the first invention, he depicts the Lord Mayor's pageant which was going on at the time of Henry's death as the rioting of the wicked Babylon insolent in its contempt of fate, but suddenly overwhelmed by providence with a storm. The significance of the scene is specifically pointed up by a comparison to Spenser's Idle Lake and by a reference to the artifice which has there overlaid nature. From this scene he passes in the second invention to Westminster, where the three sisters, England, Scotland, and Wales, allegorized as the daughters of Albion, issue a gusty call to repentance for the sin which has caused them to be deprived of Henry and an outcry against Rome's rats. The first part mingles a general cry against worldliness with a lament for the falls of great one; in the second an outcry against death, rising in sharpness, yields to a call to repentance for specific sins and an attack on Rome.... The lament for patronage which precedes the chief passage recalls Spenser. James is the kingly Shepherd who with his care doth keep the flock of Israel from the raging ire of ravening wolves" Seventeenth-Century Poetic (1950) 61-62.

Dennis Kay: "Like Peacham's work [The Period of Mourning], Niccols's poem contains much Spenserian material: yet neither can satisfactorily be assimilated to the Spenserian movement. Both focus strongly on the external trappings of chivalry and heroic romance, and depict the Prince in the tradition of the heroes of The Faerie Queene. In neither case is there the self-consciousness or radicalism of the other Spenserians: both writers show the way Spenserian fiction had become available for elegies in the public mode" Melodious Tears (1990) 162-63.

Sad second Sister of the Sacred NINE,
Whose sweetest Musick is hart-breaking mone,
Be present at these Funerall teares of mine,
And if they fayle supply them with thine owne.

Injoy we not the Sonne of such a King
So faire a branch, which now such fruit doth beare,
That from such fruit, such hopes already spring,
That our great Fortunes shake the world with feare?

The heavens therefore us ever shall behold
With lovely looke, we feare no adverse Fate,
By humaine powers we cannot be contrould,
Nay, Jove himselfe can hardly hurt our state.

O vaine opinion of Soule-blinded men
To thinke that ought on earth may be secure,
What lives, must doubtlesse die; though doubtfull when,
No mortall thing, alas, may long indure.

In that selfe houre, in which the infant birth
Of joy in humaine hart is but begunne,
Unlookt for chance may change such joyfull mirth
To dolefull mourning, ere the glasse be runne.

For angry Heaven disdaining this vaine puffe
Of Giant-Pride in men did ope the treasure
Of Joves fierce wrath, and with sterne stormes did cuffe
The earth and seas in signe of their displeasure.

The King of Gods, as he but cast a looke
On them below, made all the kingdome tremble
A strange amazement Prince and subject strooke,
Their former hopes now sudden feares resemble.

A cloud of Sorrow cover'd all the Coast,
The Sunne of Comfort that had woont dispread
His gladsome beames, as hee his light had lost,
In dolefull darknesse hid his glorious head.

Then droop't great Albion, and did hang the wing,
Which late above the clouds did vaunt to flye:
The Peacock plumes, which from her pride did spring
Did shed, their colours all did vade and dye.

The noble youth to warlike practize given,
The brood of Mars, which daily great did grow,
Whose harts with hope did leape as high as heaven,
Wander dejected in blacke weedes of woe.

Disturb'd in thought to thinke what cause could force
So suddaine change of things, that seem'd to stand
Immutable, by West I kept my course
Still up the River, by the Northern strand.

Untill I came to that great house of Fame,
That sacred Temple built by Kings of yore,
Th' admired workmanship of whose faire frame
Excels all others that have beene before.

There Time hath rais'd up Trophies all dispred,
With shining Gold, and monuments of Fame,
To many Kings and great Heroes dead,
And there for ever hath engrav'd their Name.

Whose goodly building, as I stood to see,
And wondred at the Architects rare hand,
An unthought accident did hap to me,
As in the Temple I did gazing stand.

There did I see, which I shall ever rue,
There to have seene a dolefull Herse erected,
To which as to a Prince no reverence due,
Or right of Royalty was there neglected.

The royall Badges that were set about
Did seeme to me to mourne upon that Herse,
The Lordly Lyon seem'd not halfe so stout,
Nor th' Unicorne, as he was woont, so fierce.

A dew of dolefull teares was standing seene
Upon the lovely white Rose and the red,
The Thistle was not, as was woont so greene,
The Flowre-deluce did seeme to hang the head.

But woe is me, that, which was most in me
The cause of woe (O let it no be told)
Was three faire Ladies, whom I there did see,
Three fayrer Ladies, eye did neare behold.

They daughters to a famous Monarch were;
Though now their royall robes were laid away,
Instead whereof they mourning stoales did weare,
And at their feete their Crownes and Scepters lay.

On the cold ground all carelesse they did sit
As loathing nice respects about that beere
And with their hands for such sterne use unfit
(Alas the while) did rend their golden haire.

Their brests they fiercely smot, where liv'd their woe
And their sad eyes dispairing of releefe
They up did lift, whence streames of teares did flow,
As heaven accusing guilty of their griefe.

Their griefe was such, that even the marble stone
As mov'd there with a weeping moysture beares,
Yea now to thinke upon their pitteous mone
My frailer eyes doth drowne these lines in teares.

And at that time I felt my greived heart
So peirc't with pitty of so sad a sight,
That drawing neere I prai'd them to impart,
What was the cause of their so rewfull plight.

Then up arose the fayrest of the three
Who sighing deepe, as if her hart would breake,
After some pause, as soone as breath was free,
To let forth griefe, these bleeding words did speake.

ANGELA.
Ah, what delight of speech can be to those,
Who when they speake in vaine do spend their breath?
Man, he may heare, but cannot help our woes,
For hee is subject unto Tyrant Death;
To Tyrant Death, that hath done this despight,
Ah then in living speech is no delight.

In vaine my tongue, in vaine thou dost unfold
The helplesse harmes of our hart hidden griefe:
In vaine it is such Sorrowes should be told,
Whereas no hope is left to finde reliefe:
All is but vaine, where nothing may availe,
Except this one thing left, to weepe and wayle.

To weepe and wayle his losse for evermore,
Upon whose life my hopes did whole relye.
O then into these eyes what powre will poure
A floud of Teares, that never may be dry?
That I unto the dead his due may give,
And show how I him lov'd, when he did live.

I am the eldest borne of Daughters three
To Albion, chiefe of mighty Neptunes sonnes,
Who jealous lest his seed commixt should bee
With other mortals, round about us runnes,
And from the world, as being in doubt to lose us,
Hath made his waves a silver wall t' inclose us.

Logris my Name was once so call'd before
By great King Locrine, Brutus eldest birth,
But since that mighty people tooke this shore,
The war-like SAXONS famous through the earth,
Hight Angela my Name hath ever beene,
Such was the name of their victorious Queene.

And since that time, that name of mine like Thunder
Hath borne a dreadfull sound, through seas and land,
The worlds great Idoll, Rome, at whom with wonder
The Nations round about doe gazing stand,
As sodaine blow her necke of Pride had broken,
Hath quak't, when shee hath heard my name but spoken.

But why doe I, thus vainely vaunt my power,
And boast my greatnesse, now alas brought low,
Since cruell DEATH hath cropt as faire a flower,
As in my garland ever yet did grow?
Was never Flower more hopefull growne then he,
Though he is dead and withered, as you see.

If Iron sides were given me from above,
That sighing would indure, and never breake:
Yet could I not expresse my countryes love
Unto this dead yong PRINCE; nor could I speake
His prayses due, had I a voyce of Brasse.
So vertuous Noble, and so wise he was.

Was (woe the while that now he is not so)
Sonne to the Fame-grac'd Monarch of this ILE,
Who with his royall Brother, who doth grow
To hopes, that doe my present griefes beguile,
Betwixt them two alone did seeme to share
The heritage of GRACE, and vertues rare.

But unto him, to him, that now is gone,
Heav'n at his birth so gracious was and free,
That as it should have tooke delight alone
To give to him, what gifts could given be,
In that blest houre of his faire birth it shed
All gifts of grace upon his royall head.

The Hony sweet he suckt from learned writs,
Was as heavens Nectar to delight his tast,
Himselfe the best above the best of wits
In learnings lore shot up and grew so fast,
That all, in him, admir'd these nobler parts,
Discourse and practize both in worthie arts.

Then help (yee sacred Sisters every one)
Leave your delightfull songs and sportfull games,
About the pleasant springs of Hellicon
And sitting with us on the banckes of Thames,
Lament with us, for you have cause to mone,
Maecenas now is dead, is dead and gone.

The sectaries of your deviner skill
By the dull world dispis'd hee did advance,
And them with Princely power protected still
Against the mallice of Proud Ignorance;
Then to him dead, who gave while he did live
Such grace to you, all gracefull glory give.

On you disdain'd of golden vanitie,
He dain'd to looke, and knowing sapience
To be the Garland of Nobility,
Did daily seeke your wisedomes influence,
But he is gone and few doe now remaine,
That doe not you and all your Arts disdaine.

Where are the worthies of those antique dayes,
Who woont, their Crownes and Scepters laid aside,
To girt their conquering browes with sacred Bayes,
For which their names be now eternized.
They late did live in him, that now is dead,
And are with him againe rapt up in lead.

For few doe now the sacred Nine esteeme,
That have the gift of Mydas golden touch,
Science divine, a fruitlesse thing they deeme,
And count the learned base for being such.
O then let all that learned are lament
His losse, whose life was learnings ornament.

And you brave spirits of the warre-Gods traine,
That love to beare the bold Bellonaes shield,
And with your swords eternitie to gaine,
Delight in battels and in bloodie field,
Mourne you with us, your Mars hath lost his light,
And in deaths clouds is now extinguisht quite.

Who like himselfe, is like to looke on you,
That with an open hand and minde so free,
Will give to men of Armes their prayses due,
Which woont great Brittaines brasen wals to be?
Now in the Helme, the glory of the field,
Foule spiders still their mansion house may build.

If death had given him leave to lead you on,
And guide you through the crimson paths of warre,
Against the sonnes of strumpet Babilon,
Or those Philistines, that her Champions are,
You with your swords were like to dig a Tombe,
Wherein to burie all the Pride of Rome.

Of Rome, that would and will be Monster-head
Of all the world: who was so holy given,
That she of late with hot devotion led,
Would with one blast have blowne me up to heaven,
Such hot hell-fierd zeale let all times know,
Since time before the like could never show.

For this, had HENRY liv'd to lift his hand
To hunt from hence Romes Rats, that daily feed
Upon the fat and glory of my land
And in my wounded bosome daily breed,
I by his arme, like ever to be strong,
Upon the gates of Rome had grav'd this wrong.

For I did thinke (and who but so will thinke)
Had he but liv'd, that never in this land,
A fuller cuppe of glory I should drincke,
Then that which I did hope from HENRIES hand?
For twice foure Henries have beene Lords of mee,
All which could not show greater hopes then hee.

Not Edwards battailes, when such deeds were done,
That Cressies and Poiteres were drown'd in blood,
Nor those of Henry, when such fame hee woone,
That France did stoope, and at his mercy stood,
I did not thinke should be so great in fame,
As those which hope did promise in his name.

Him oft, though young, upon a war-like steed,
Like love-borne Perseus, mounted I have seene,
Whom with such goodly grace he hath bestrid,
As Horse and man had but one body beene,
Teaching him stand, stoope, stop, turne, leap and spring
Caper, curvet, pace, praunce, and trot the ring.

His riper judgement in such unripe yeeres
And knowledge in the Theoricke of warre,
Which as I feare when future ages hears
They hardly will beleeve: wee may compare,
To th' ancient Romans, whose grave wisedome gave
Rome all her Pride, and made the world her slave.

As bounteous Heaven with vertues and with arts
Th' immortall part of man in him did grace,
So Nature in constructure of those parts,
Which death too cruell did too soone deface
The grace of all good feature gave to him
In every Muskle, member, joynt and limbe.

A manly sternenesse sat upon his brow;
Yet mixed with an aemiable grace,
The silken blossomes gan to bud but now
Upon his downy chin; yet in his face
Was seene such judgement as in age appears,
How then could death destroy such hopeful yeeres?

But why doe I, like man, made out of dust
Seeme gainst great heaven vaine arguments to frame?
Nor highest love, nor Death, have beene unjust
Taking from earth, what earth could never claime:
His soule from us for our foule sinnes complaints,
Is rapt to heaven to dwell among the Saints.

Ah wretched England, now I turne to thee
To sound heavens judgements in thy sottish eares,
And if still deafe thou Adder-like wilt be,
And not be mov'd with pitty of these teares,
Yet on thy selfe some kinde compassion take
Doe not sleepe dead in sinne, at last awake.

Why dost thou hug thy sinnefull selfe, as safe,
In the soft bosome of securefull sloath?
Dreadlesse of thine owne danger, why do'st laugh
In face of heaven whose lookes are full of wroth?
Why dost thou seeke to make thy evill good?
As vice in vertue should be understood.

Turne yet deare country, turne thee now at last,
Be mov'd with this late sudden blow from heaven,
And let these teares, still tell thee what is past,
Least carelesse found, a greater blow be given:
For though thy losse be now laid out on beere,
Forget him not, thou canst not finde his peere.

Except his royall Brother, who begins
Like hopefull bud to promise goodly fruit:
For whose deere life, repentant of thy sinnes,
Offer to heaven thy prayers and suppliant suite:
For now on Charles my hopes transferred be,
Since Henry, dead, I never more shall see.

Thus sad shee sigh'd and downe her selfe did throw,
Euen downe againe upon the cold hard stone,
With whom her Sisters, as wood-Culvers doe
Upon the bared branch made pitteous mone,
Untill at length the second Sister rose
And in these words did utter forth her woes.

ALBANA.
A mournfull subject should with mournfull skill
Be painted forth, in letters fraught with tears;
Then help, soone help me to some turtles quil,
Who for her deare loves losse griefes burthen beares,
Which with sad Sorrowes drops may ever flow,
That with true Passion thou mayst write my woe.

Never did Turtle mourne on branchlesse bow
Her deerest make dead dropping from the tree
With more lamenting griefe, then I doe now
Deere HENRY dead, dead HENRY deere to mee.
For though thou hast my Sisters teares before,
Yet I have cause to mourne as much, or more.

To Albion, Monarch of this Iland all
Till death his life untimely did exspell,
When with Alcides on the coast of Gaule
Fighting beneath his conquering Club he fell
I, wretched I, the second Daughter am
And at the first hight Albana my name.

Of Noble Abanact, Brutes second Sonne
I was so nam'd, who over me did raigne
Till slaine in battaile by the barbarous Hume
His Brother Locrine did my cause maintaine,
And on proud HUMBER did revenge his blood,
Who drown'd, did leave his name unto that flood.

And since that time, though wrathfull heav'ns have
With many a bitter storme upon my coast,
Though in the depth of woe I have beene drown'd frown'd
For many sonnes, whom I have timelesse lost;
Yet never any griefe did touch mee more,
Then this for him, whom dead I doe deplore.

How can the Nurse but wayle her infant lost
Tooke from the breast, whom she shall never see
And of his birth, who but my selfe can boast?
Who was so hopefull, when hee went from me,
That never Mother had more hope of childe,
Alas, that of such hopes I am beguild.

When time at first his birth to light did bring,
Those three faire twines, from whom to us is given
All good and vertue, that of grace doth spring
To rocke his royall Cradell came from heaven,
And by degrees their graces did bestow,
As he from leafe and bud to flower did grow:

His leafe was lovely as the spring of day,
His bud peept forth as doth the bashfull morne,
His flower began most goodly to display,
And much this Ilands garden did adorne:
But death, that wilde Boare entered in anon,
And now his lives leafe, bud, and flower are gone.

Not in that gardens plot, which we be-hight
Of Yorke and Lancaster, did ever grow
Amongst so many Roses red and white
Any Rose-bud, that made a fairer show,
So faire it show'd, earth was envi'd to beare it,
Now therfore heaven doth in her bosome weare it.

Not all the Forrest of great Albion
Did ever any Lordly Lyon know,
More like then that of his to set upon
That Beast of Rome and all her Pride orethrow;
And therefore now a place to it is given
Above the Lyon, that great starre in heaven.

If he had liv'd beneath his royall Sire
Our Kingly shepheard, who with care doth keepe
The flocke of Israell from raging Ire
Of ravening Wolves that would destroy the sheepe
Then, then, should all our Brittaine borders be,
As once they were from Wolves secure and free.

But what so strong or stedfast is, whose state
Stands under heaven built upon earthly mould,
That can indure? firme is the doome of FATE
To Prince and Poore alike, to young and old,
Nor wisedome, honour, beautie, gold or strength,
To mortall life can adde on day in length.

Who that hath eyes, but sees the day begunne
Peepe forth from East like childe from Mothers wombe
And yet in West ere many howers be done,
Her life and light being lost shee seekes her tombe,
Hee, that sees this unto himselfe may say,
Death is not farre, my life is like the day.

For if ought mortall could have wrought such wonder,
As to have bought a little Lease of life,
Sterne Fate should not so soone have cut in sunder
Our deare dead HENRIES thred with cruell knife.
Yea, many lives (could lives prevaile with death)
Would for his one have offerd up their breath.

But that which grieves a tender Mother most,
And heapes huge Sorrowes on her mournfull breast
When she her deare beloved Sonne hath lost,
Is now the cause of my mindes most unrest,
I was not by to close dead HENRIES eyes,
When envious Fates did make his life their prize.

I, that did beare him, was too farre away,
To mourne his dolefull Fate, when as hee di'd,
Death, like a Theefe, upon his life did pray,
And stole him hence; to mee it was deni'd
Unto my Lord to speake my last Farewell,
And bid him sleepe, where peace doth ever dwell.

Yee Sisters three, that still in fatall hand
The Twist and Spindle of mans life doe hold,
To whom the power is given to command,
The breath of this or that man, uncontroul'd,
Amongst so many lives, why did you chuse
That life of his, and all the rest refuse?

Was it to make your dreaded power knowne
In him alone, to men in Fortunes grace?
Mongst whom (flesh proud by Nature,) few or none
Observe it in the men of meaner place?
If so, he being spar'd, why was not then
Your doome decreed against those wretched men?

Those wretched men, of all that live this day,
Who vainely thinke themselves then most secure
When soothing Sycophants to them doe say
They shall not dye but evermore indure:
Of such may HENRY, gone, the eyes unblinde,
And make them know, they must not stay behinde.

But thus why with inevitable Fate
Doe I dispute? why doe I thinke in hart,
To preordaine the time of finall date
And point whom death shall strike with deadly dart,
Since mortall men such secrets may not know,
And heaven keepes hid such things from earth below?

Yet, if that any wretch, whose cankered brest
Is deepely wounded with the deadly sting
Of monster Errours, foule seaven-headed beast
Shall dare to aske, why such a hopefull spring
In prime of all his youth was taken hence
And falsely thinke the cause was his offence;

Such barking Curres (if barking Curres there be
That dare in private our dead Lyon bite)
Know that the chiefest cause why wretched we
Have lost in Israell our second light,
Is their false, wicked, close, commerce with those,
That are their God, their King and countries foes.

Although I not excuse these impious times
Which unto heaven for vengeance daily call;
For know (deere country) for thy odious crimes,
This heavy losse upon thy head did fall:
Not that brave Prince, though borne with sinfull breath
With crying crimes did hasten his owne death.

Then with thy sister England turne from sinne,
That Heaven may turne her threatfull plagues from thee
And blesse thy Soveraignes Charles, who doth begin,
To bud apace, and in each grace to be
The Image of his Noble Brother dead,
For whom these teares his Albana doth shed.

This said, the rest in silence she did drowne,
And sighing from her breast a grievous groane,
As if it would have broke, she sat her downe,
With whom her Sisters did lament and mone,
Untill the third and youngest up did rise,
Who did expresse her Sorrowes in this wise.

CAMBERA.
If ever heaven did shed a weeping showre,
Compassionating things on earth below,
If earth, or any thing therein have powre
T' augment my griefe or adde unto my woe,
In my sad passions let them beare a part,
That these my teares may pierce the worlds hard hart.

The man, that wayles the losse of such a thing,
Which he hath sought and yet could never see,
Which was the life, from whence his hopes did spring,
And findes it dead, that man is like to mee,
Of HENRY dead, the garland of my glory,
Neare seene by mee, must be my mournfull story.

I am the yongest Sister of the three
Yet equall to the best of both in fame,
As in all antique stories men may see,
And Cambera is my true auncient name,
So cal'd of Noble Camber, Brut's third Sonne,
When over me to raigne hee first begunne.

And since that time, my state oft times cast downe
On lowly dust by hand of irefull FATE,
I never had more hope to calme her frowne
And rayse againe the glory of my state:
But death that daily workes this worlds decay
With Henries life hath blowne my hopes away.

Twice thirty times and five the radiant Sunne
His Inne hath taken with the golden Ram
And every time his yeares just race hath runne
Since any Prince was titl'd by that name;
Who then more teares should to this Herse afford
Then I for losse of my late living Lord?

The blacke Prince Edward, whose victorious Lance
Spaines bastard Henry did in battell quell
And made blacke daies and bloody fieldes in Fraunce
When French King John beneath his valor fell
In Henry liv'd, for hee againe did rayse
My plume forgot, which Edward crown'd with praise.

As when in golden Summer wee doe see
A dainty Palme high mounted on the head
Of some greene hill to daunce for jollity
And shake her tender lockes but new dispread,
So stood my Estrich plumes on Henries crowne
Waving aloft like ensignes of renowne.

Had I but seene, what fame so high resoundes,
Had Ludlow with his presence once beene blest,
Or had his foote steps toucht my borders boundes,
I should not yeeld unto my thoughts unrest;
But with my Sisters seeke t' appease my ruth,
Who did injoy the glory of his youth.

Then for this losse, 'gainst whom shall I complaine?
To lessen griefe, shall heaven appeached be?
Or death accus'd of wrong? that were prophane,
Our Princes are their subjects, and as hee,
So others shall, that are and ere have beene;
Like vapors vade and never more be seene.

No, no my country thou the blame must have,
Thy sinne above the cloudes her head did show
And there the King of GODS did proudly brave,
Who for that cause did scourge thee with this woe,
Which ever beare in thought, least at the last,
Thou feele the smart of that thou thinkst is past.

Lift up thine eyes, to heaven all prayses give,
Seeke with sad teares t' appease JEHOVAHS wrath,
And that thy Royall DAVID long may live
To try thy cause against that man of Gath,
Bring downe the length of dayes upon his head,
And blesse the partner of his Royall Bed.

Blesse hopefull CHARLES, that we may want no heyre
Of his to weare this Kingdomes Diadem,
Great Heaven looke lovely on that lovely payre,
Strike Envy dead, if it but point at them,
And let their Sunne of JOY be never set:
Though HENRY dead we never may forget.

Thus having utter'd forth her pittious mone,
She with her Sisters vanished away,
And left me there in Sorrow all alone,
At which amaz'd I durst no longer stay,
Else I did thinke upon that Royall HERSE,
To have left behinde this sad acrostike Verse.

AN EPITAPH.
H ere lyes a Prince, that was the Prince of Youth,
E xpert in Arts his age doth seldome know,
N oble his Nature, and the shield of Truth,
R eligions stedfast friend, and Errors foe;
I n Vertues wayes hee kept as he begun,
E ven in that path his Royall Sire had done.

P arted hee is from us, and yet not gone,
R apt up to heaven, his heavenly part there lives,
I n earth his earth lies dead, for 'tis her owne,
N ame and Renowne the World to him still gives.
C ount this true Parradox, if truely read,
E ver Prince HENRY lives; and yet is dead.